Perfect Likeness
by Saber Wing
Summary: Alistair studies his reflection in the water as he rests. He's not sure he likes what he sees, but then, he's not sure of anything anymore. Post Ostagar. Alistair/Amell


_**Author's Note: **_I'm on a roll these past few days! Skyrim has been consuming my life, so I didn't have time to write. Two pieces out in one day though? Awesome ;). Although, this one has been in production for months. Whenever I'd get blocked on other things, I would switch to this and write more of it. I think it's turned out pretty well. These two are my favorite pairing to write about, too, so I had fun.

Takes place directly after leaving Flemeth's hut with Morrigan. Angst, angst, more angst, and a bit of fluffiness for good measure.

On with the story! Hope you enjoy ^_^

_**Perfect Likeness**_

He had hazel eyes.

Oh, Alistair knew that before, he supposed. The knowledge was always back there somewhere in his brain, no doubt collecting dust for all the good it did him. It was filed away as unimportant along with everything else, but as he gazed into these placid waters it occurred to him again, and he clung to the mundane little fact with a desperate sort of hope.

Ugh. Self-pity was pathetic. Okay, _a lot _pathetic. Was he truly going to do this? Was he traveling down this dismal path again?

You bet Andraste's knickers he was, and he didn't _care._

The moment he allowed himself to care would be the moment he'd lose his mind.

He caught Solona steeling glances at him as she moved around the campfire, apparently trying to roast something for their dinner, but Alistair didn't care about that.

He didn't care about _her._ He didn't care about the Grey Wardens. He didn't care about _anything. _

He didn't care about the blood and grime caked upon his skin. He didn't care about the frigid cold seeping into his bones. He didn't care about the images assaulting his mind - horrible images of Duncan's broken body rotting in the ruins of Ostagar. He didn't even care about that _bitch _Morrigan, which was really saying something. She could just crawl right into that tent of hers and _stay _there until the darkspawn ate her. Or, she could walk up to him and slap him and he wouldn't give a damn. Because guess what? Alistair. Didn't. _Care._

'_I don't care. I don't care…'_

He had hazel eyes.

Maric didn't.

Over the years, Alistair had largely avoided mirrors and the like. They only ever caused him pain, and when he was young and unloved, he would gaze into the looking glass and he would wonder why.

Why was he bound to a fate he didn't want? Why did Lady Isolde and the Chantry sisters hate him so much? Why did his mother die? Why didn't his father want him? Why didn't he decide he loved his little mistake, and come spirit him away to that grand palace in Denerim? Had Alistair done something wrong? Was the Maker angry with him?

Why was it that whenever he saw his own face, his heart would break and he would sob until he fell sleep? Sometimes he'd sing himself a lullaby, too; alone in a room with nothing for company but the cold, stone walls and a make-shift bed. He'd never quite understood it before. Maybe he just hadn't allowed himself to.

Now those times were over. After all these years, he was finally tired of kidding himself. He knew why. He knew bloody well why.

Because every single time he looked in the mirror, he was endlessly reminded of what he could never have. It was because all he saw was Maric's face; Maric's nose, Maric's jaw. Even Maric's _smile, _fade take him. The Maker must have thought this joke was hilarious. It wasn't enough that his father hadn't wanted him, oh no_. _He also had to look _just sodding like _the guy.

Andraste's blood, he'd thought he was done with this. He thought he was done dwelling on things he couldn't change, but he was in an unusually dark mood tonight. Alistair normally made it his mission to be sure everyone else was happy. Or at least he tried to, anyway. But when did it end? When was it his turn?

His life had been nothing but misery thus far. After so many years of telling himself that he was happy, he was strong, he could get out of bed for just _one more day_, he was finally allowing the truth to sink in, and he didn't like it. He just wanted to go home and wasn't _that _funny, because he'd only had one for six months of his life.

Maker's breath, he wanted to go home…where Duncan was.

Even now, as he sat gazing into the water, he was stricken by everything as if he were a child again. He wanted to cry, only this time it was worse. This time he saw the face of not one, but two kings.

Two _dead_ kings, who made him feel guilty just for being alive. Two dead kings he thought he could have loved if he'd ever gotten the chance. The perfect likeness of a legend and a legend in the making. The perfect likeness of a _fool_ and an even bigger fool.

Absently, he watched his reflection as he reached up to rub his cheek, smearing the little bits of flesh, ichor and bone still covering his bare skin. Leaving him dirtier than ever before. Leaving him _aching_. Tainted. Worn. Alistair supposed he should wash it off now, but that seemed wrong too.

Maric and Calian were forever lost to him, but his face was theirs. His face was theirs, and he was drowning in the carnage they'd left behind. Of course it was tainted. Of course it was worn. It should stay that way. Alistair would never be clean anyway. Not really. Why _should_ such a privilege be his?

He was nobody.

"Alistair?"

Normally he would have been so startled, he'd have jumped straight into the lake, but right now it just didn't seem worth the effort. He didn't even flinch as Solona sat beside him, face tight with worry. Her auburn hair fell in messy tangles around her face, reddish-brown eyes boring into him, but instead of the fire that was normally there, now they just looked sad.

"What's wrong?" she murmured, reaching out to take his hand in a gesture that was both familiar and comforting. Alistair wanted to shy from her touch, but found that he could no more do that than he could forsake the cursed blood in his veins.

Kindness right now would only force him to break down and cry. He knew that, but she was warm._ So warm. _And try as he might, he couldn't find the strength to push her away_. _Instead he found himself drifting closer as she reached out to him. A bright light, beautiful, where elsewhere there was nothing but darkness.

Part of him wanted to answer her; grab onto something, anything, _anyone _to believe in. And yet when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out except for a strangled groan. There was a lump in his throat that he couldn't swallow no matter how hard he tried, and to his everlasting embarrassment, he could feel the tears gathering beneath his eyes. He couldn't look at her. This was humiliating enough without eye contact.

_Good job, Alistair. Go on and make a fool of yourself. Maybe she'll stop laughing some time before you decide to throw yourself onto that sword of mercy the Templars wield so well._

He made a move to turn away, but Solona wouldn't have it. Grasping his chin gently, she forced his head up, forced his eyes to meet hers, and he was helpless to stop her.

"Don't do that. Don't hold back. It isn't you, Alistair, and you know it. I don't expect you to pour your heart out to me, but I don't want you to hide either." Her voice shook, seemingly overcome by emotion as she continued to speak. "You don't have to be afraid. It's okay. It's okay, just…please. Don't ever be ashamed of how you feel. Not on my account. Not for anyone."

No. They didn't have time for this. There were a whole _two _Grey Wardens left in Ferelden and he was the older one. He had to keep it together. He had to be strong. He had to fight this childish grief and tell it to bugger off, because if he didn't…

_Oh, sod it._

Her face blurred as he gave up the fight, and the dam broke almost as if her words were a battering ram. He couldn't stop the tears from coming, but there was no condemnation in her stare. In those eyes there was nothing but compassion, kindness and sympathy. There was darkness in her too. Darkness that said, 'I understand.' Darkness that said she knew suffering just as profoundly as he did.

"You're a mess. Here, let's get you cleaned up a little, okay?" She pulled a scrap of lacy white cloth from her pocket. He'd seen her take it out sometimes, at random intervals when she thought no one was watching. She would sit there silently, just holding it to her cheek, and she always looked so horribly alone, Alistair wanted nothing more than to take her pain away. He though that perhaps it was a memento of her family. Of times long gone and faded, distant memories, but though he'd sit beside her in a silent show of comfort, he'd never thought it wise to ask.

Before he could even attempt to now, she dipped it into the lake, ringing it out before bringing it back up to wipe the darkspawn blood from his face. Soft touches, a smile here and there, but otherwise, she was silent. And he was grateful.

But to his dismay, no matter how he tried to rein it in, his frazzled nerves and shattered composure only seemed to unravel even more with every stroke of that silk handkerchief. His chest heaved with sobs as they tore from his lips, and before he realized what was happening, her arms were around him and his head was in her lap, and he was whimpering and shaking, screaming and crying; cursing heaven, earth and whatever else the damnable Maker saw fit to create. Every single barrier he had ever erected to protect himself was torn down and demolished_, _just as surely as King Cailan's obliterated army at Ostagar. He was the lonely, forgotten child he'd always felt like inside, and he couldn't seem to shut it up behind a smile or a joke this time.

Alistair cried. He cried for the childhood he'd lost and the parents he would never know. He cried for Duncan, for King Cailan, for every Warden who would never see the light of another day. He cried for the mages and the templars. He cried for every child who'd ever had to feel cold, hungry and unloved. He even cried for Loghain, because who only knew what had happened in his life to make him do something so horrible.

Solona just held him the entire time, murmuring words he would never remember, stroking his hair as he wept shamefully. He didn't know how long they sat there. He didn't know when she'd managed to strip off his armor and close his wounds. He didn't know when they'd moved back over to the fire, or why she was still letting him use her lap as a pillow. What Alistair did know was that his arms were around her waist, she was combing her fingers through his hair, and he wanted nothing more than to stay right here forever.

When Solona's sweet, soft voice sang the words of a lullaby, he was more than happy to snuggle in closer and drift off to sleep.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Aww. See? I can write things that are ultimately cute and not just angsty. Although, I'm convinced that I'm incapable of writing something that is fluff without angst. Argh.

Alistair is totally Maric junior. I think he'd be even more upset about it if he realized it runs deeper than looks. When I first read _The Stolen Throne, _I laughed so hard at the similarities.


End file.
